Chapter Twelve

“It will do no good, moping,” Mitte told Lissi later that same evening. “You know what your mama used to say. It is better to stay busy than to moan and weep.”

“I am not weeping. Or moaning,” Lissi retorted.

“Work keeps the mind occupied, and it can accomplish a great deal, besides.”

Lissi, slumped in a chair, looked up at her old nurse. “It is you who said that, not Mama.”

“She learned it from me.” Mitte’s expression softened. “Why do you grieve? Is it the miller?”

Far too humiliated for anything but honesty, Lissi admitted, “I love him, Mitte. And he does not want me. He doesn’t want my heart.”

“Ah.” Mitte pulled a stool up to Lissi’s side and took her hand. “The man must be a fool. Your heart, my girl, is a rare and precious gift.”

“One he cannot accept.”

Mitte put her head on one side. “A hard thing to bear, especially for you.”

“Eh?”

“It has taken you overlong to bestow the gift of your heart. In fact, I feared it might never happen. It makes you fierce in your love. But, my girl, look what you have endured this past year or more. You can endure this also.”

“Maybe I cannot. Perhaps this will be the thing to break me.”

“Never.”

“He kissed me, Mitte. And it was—” But Lissi had no words.

“If he kissed you, what is he about, handing you back your heart?”

“I am not enough for him. I am not Dorrit.”

“Now, you banish that thought right out of your head, girl. Not good enough for the miller?” Mitte snorted. “Stupid man.”

“He wants her back, I think.”

“Of course he does. We want all of them back. We ache for it. But we cannot have that, can we? And if Christmas made one thing clear, it is that we need to go on.”

Lissi met the old woman’s eyes. “Christmas?”

“All that wishing. All that hope. It’s like shutting a beautiful bird inside a box.”

“Eh?”

“When you open the box, that bird is going to fly out, and you will not get it back in. Because it wants to fly.

“Or it is like those snowdrops.” Mitte stroked Lissi’s hair. “They come up in the spring, sometimes far too early. When the snow falls upon them, what do they do? Do they pull their heads back into the dark soil? Nay, they stand there, brave, and believe the warmth will come.”

Tears flooded Lissi’s eyes.

“Do not try to shut your bird in the box, Lissi. She has to fly. We all need to love. Even if those first flights hurt.”

Lissi nodded.

Mitte said, more briskly, returning to her ordinary manner, “Which is why I am off to see the good reverend. That man is going to marry me, whether he knows it or not.”

She went out, and the thoughts teemed in Lissi’s mind. Mitte, to wed? She’d been a spinster since long before Lissi could remember. And wed, would she go off to live at the tiny vicarage? That would indeed leave Lissi all alone here in this house, once so full of bustle and laughter.

Another thing she could not bear.

Looking back on the past months, it seemed she saw a terrible string of events she could not bear. Yet had.

Perhaps she was stronger than she knew. Strong enough to forfeit Ole’s love, until he felt ready to share his life, again? If he ever did.

But it was not past wishing, that Ole might open the box that held his happiness, and release it to fly with her own.

****

The first thing Ole heard when he stepped out of his house the next morning was laughter.

The sound stopped him where he stood, his boots in the newly fallen snow he’d come out to sweep. It had been so long since he’d heard such a thing, ringing through the clear, still air, it felt like stepping into sunlight from darkness.

Ja, he thought as he employed his broom on the path. The alderman’s daughter had started something with her gifts of cookies and wishes. Folk were—well, different. They sought out one another for conversation and, ja, laughter, just like two of his neighbors now speaking across the wattle fence. They lent a hand. They shared.

There must be some magic in it.

Such a simple thing for Lissi Johansen to do. A basket full of cookies made from gleaned ingredients, to accomplish so much.

She had wisdom. Maybe even some magic of her own.

An image of her face rose before his mind’s eye. Beautiful blue eyes. Well, it wasn’t the color of her eyes that made them beautiful, but the fact that they held understanding. They held compassion. They showed the depths of her spirit, her heart.

His own heart quivered in his chest. He never should have kissed her. Never, if he didn’t mean to offer her something more than friendship. For now he feared he’d hurt her feelings—the last thing he ever wished to do.

She deserved a man capable of devotion. But that was him, Ole, wasn’t it? He was still devoted to his Dorrit. Part of him always would be. Could he offer Lissi less than all?

Nay, nay.

She deserved a man who would throw himself at her feet. Or no, no. One who would walk beside her, standing tall, his shoulders straight.

Him, again? Ach, but he did not know.

He never should have kissed her. For now he wanted her, day and night. A fine state for a man who possessed only half a heart.

“Papa? What are you doing, just standing there in the snow?”

“Ach, Hanne, do not stand there either, in your nightdress. It is cold. Go get dressed.”

“Are we going to the forest today?”

“To the forest, ja.”

Hanne ran off, contented. She liked their days spent working together. Indeed, he’d never spent so much time with her in the past, when he worked at the mill.

Things had changed. Perhaps not all for the worse.

The snow crackled underfoot as they walked into the trees, the runners of Hanne’s sled shushing behind them. The trip took longer and longer each time, as they cleared the deadfall and moved on.

They passed the place where Lissi had kissed him. Ja, she had kissed him that first time. The magic of the moment still lingered beneath the trees.

For the first time in months, he spoke to his dead wife, in his mind. Would it be so wrong, Dorrit? Would it be so much a betrayal, to cure the loneliness?

A single leaf drifted down and touched his shoulder. An answer? He didn’t think so.

Yet he continued to speak to Dorrit as he trudged on. He spoke softly, as he used to do when he cradled her in his arms in their bed, at night.

You know I will always love you. When you and I stood before the minister in Middholm, and I spoke the words, that was forever. But, Dorrit, it is like this—I do not believe I can bear a life lived alone.

Widows and widowers remarried. It happened all the time. Oftentimes, he suspected it was a practical arrangement. A homestead needed to be kept, the work shared. Children needed raising. Love was not always involved.

Survival. It was about that.

They were all survivors, those left here in Gjerhold. He did not ask for love. Yet he wanted it—if not for himself, then for Lissi.

A woman like that, all warmth and generosity, deserved more than he could give. Her very kiss asked for it.

“Here, Papa?”

“Ja, Hanne, we will work here today.”

It felt good, plying the axe. He liked the way his blows rang through the chilly air, and the burn of his muscles coming awake.

Such a simple and satisfying thing, bringing the body to life. If only it also worked for the heart.

They labored all the morning long, he breaking up the fallen trees and Hanne gathering them on the sled.

“Papa, I am hungry.”

And no doubt cold, too. “Ja, Hanne. You run ahead and stir up the fire. I will bring the sled.”

Hanne pelted off ahead of him, and Ole spoke again to Dorrit, in his mind. You would be so proud of her. Such a good girl. She has strength, this child of ours. He smiled. You will never believe what she wished for, at Christmas. Not a doll or a new dress or any of those things. My happiness. Mine.

Abruptly, he stopped walking, the runners shushing to a halt behind him. Ahead he could see his house and the mill beyond. He could also see the church with its quiet graveyard, all covered in snow.

Without further hesitation, he abandoned the sled and walked on.